


Shatter Me

by placebo



Series: A Song For The Dead [2]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Character Death, M/M, but theyre not technically zombies, trope typical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2019-08-29 19:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16750339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placebo/pseuds/placebo
Summary: It’s getting harder to see the stars at night. Somehow, everything’s gone backwards, and the stars have slowly started disappearing, blinking out of existence with every passing day.(The boy stands on the edge of a cliff. Trapped.)





	1. thorn

**Author's Note:**

> ~ technically a sequel to 'Waltz (With the Dead)' but it's not necessary to read that first. It's just set in the same world, same apocalypse, a few years later.
> 
> ~ take care reading!
> 
> ~ title from Lindsey Stirling's Shatter Me

Sometimes, Jisung thinks if he hadn’t had Changbin by his side all this time, he would have given up a long time ago.

Changbin had been there when Jisung was seven and his dog died from an infection, he had been there when Jisung was twelve and his mother died in hospital after a drunk driver hit her car, he had been there – had held Jisung tight to his chest – when the outbreak first started, only days before Jisung’s fourteenth birthday, watching their parents succumb to the disease, as they hid away in a small cupboard that could barely fit their teenage selves.

Jisung’s brother had stormed into the house only minutes later, and on sight had shot his and Changbin’s parents through the skull, silencing their nauseating groans forever. Maybe Jisung would have stayed hidden, but Younghyun had always had a sixth sense tuned into Jisung, and he had gathered them up, helped them pack their bags and they had taken off, leaving their hometown far, far behind.

For three years Younghyun had taken care of Jisung and Changbin, driving them everywhere and fighting off those… _creatures._ He died fending them off, shoving Jisung into the back of the car and Changbin into the driver’s seat. They watched as Younghyun had been devoured, frozen in place, unable to move or do _anything._ When Jisung had tried to open the door Changbin had hurriedly locked the doors, driven off as Jisung screamed at him to go back.

Now that Younghyun’s gone, Changbin is more important to Jisung than ever. Changbin kept him sane – _still_ keeps him sane. Jisung’s seen everyone he cares about, everyone he loves, everyone _except Changbin_ die before him, and he’ll be fucking _damned_ if the same happens to Changbin.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

Jisung glances at Changbin, whose eyes are fixated on the road in front of them. His hair flies everywhere, window rolled down to let cool air into the hot interior of the car. He chooses not to respond, shrugging – to himself, mostly – and playing with the cord around his neck as he watches the trees flash by.

The pendant is warm in his grip, burning his skin and his mind with memories. Younghyun gave it to him on his fourteenth birthday – it’s all he has left to remember his brother by.

“Jisung.” Changbin’s tone is harsher than before, not by much, but enough to slightly rouse Jisung from whatever slump he’s feeling. Enough to make Jisung feel like talking – he has to talk, if he doesn’t want Changbin to bother him.

“We haven’t seen any of them in a while,” Jisung says. It’s the first thing he can think of that doesn’t have something to do with his brother.

“What, zombies?’

“Don’t call them that,” Jisung frowns. “You know I don’t like it.”

“Why not? That’s what they are, isn’t it?”

They’ve had this same conversation hundreds of times, and Changbin knows this. Jisung supposes it’s easy to run out of things to talk about, travelling for four years with the same two – or one, now – people. “They’re _not!_ We’ve _talked_ about this, hyung.”

Back when the outbreak had first started, when news reports fed in from China about this disease rapidly spreading across the country that could only spread through bites, that rotted people's skin and brains, the media had called them Zombies.

Not even a week later, they abruptly changed their stance, began calling them _things, creatures,_ not giving any other name for them. They hadn't explained why, beyond a brief statement that _the Chinese government told us they are not like Zombies at all._

And they're not, not really. Zombies are meant to be slow moving, shuffling creatures who can’t see or smell or hear, who walk blindly and are easy to kill.

These things, they're people but they're not anymore, they're faster and stronger and far more powerful than _anything_ should be but they're also mindless, diseased, infected to the point of bloodthirstiness. They may have weak coordination, they may be blind, but Jisung is only alive because of the car they've had all these years, and no other reason.

Jisung doesn't know why he's so sensitive about the topic. Maybe it's because he swears, he  _swears,_ his parents recognised Younghyun before he killed them. They can't be zombies if they still have a shred of humanity in them, can they?

“I know,” Changbin snickers, “I’m fucking with you, Jisungie.”

“Yeah,” Jisung sighs, curls an arm around himself. “Well, don’t.”

The car stops.

Jisung starts, straightening up as he turns to Changbin, who’s let go of the wheel and is turned towards Jisung, concern etched on his face. “Hyung? What are you-”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Changbin’s gaze is calculating, looking through Jisung’s façade in a way only he can. _Changbin knows you better than you know yourself,_ Younghyun had once said. He’s right, in a way.

“Have you been thinking about him again?”

Jisung shrugs, choosing to stare at his feet. Not a yes, but not a _no_ either. Changbin lets out a pitying sigh. Jisung’s hands clench into fists. They’re shaking slightly, he notices.

Changbin realises this too, if the way he gently grasps Jisung’s hand in one of his is anything to go by – rubbing his thumb soothingly over the back of Jisung’s hand as his fist loosens, enough that Changbin can twine their fingers together.

The touch is grounding, calming. Jisung suspects if it had come from anyone else, it would have only made him more fidgety.

“Breathe, Sungie,” Changbin murmurs. A wet tear splashes against Jisung’s knee. He hadn’t realised he’d started crying. It’s not much – not sobbing, not yet, but he can’t seem to stop them streaming down his face anyway. Changbin doesn’t say anything.

“I miss him,” Jisung whispers. “I miss him _so much._ ”

“I know,” Changbin replies, squeezing his hand tightly. He doesn’t let go of Jisung, hand tight around Jisung’s when he calms down, when they start driving again, for the rest of the drive to nowhere (anywhere).

“You know,” he says, when afternoon turns to evening, the sky streaked with pinks and oranges. “I heard that your loved ones watch over you in heaven. Like, your guardian angel. If you ask them for assistance, they’ll help you.”

Yeah, Jisung’s heard that one a million times. He wonders if Changbin knows he had stopped praying shortly after his fifteenth birthday, when he had determined that God must hate them, if he’s done _this_ to them.

He smiles at Changbin, forced and pained, then shrugs again, whispers a soft _I’ll try_ that gets lost amidst the roaring of the car. Changbin doesn’t seem to notice.

When night falls, Jisung prays for the first time in years, begging for something – _anything –_ to keep them safe.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

When Felix looks back on it, agreeing to the six month exchange in South Korea was the worst decision he could have made. At the time it had seemed amazing – a chance to pursue his dreams, to get away from his father and his toxic home.

Now, four years later, trudging along an empty road next to Chris, throat parched and stomach empty, with nothing in sight but ravaged towns and desolate streets, he thinks he would rather face his father every day for the rest of his life than be stuck in this apocalyptic wasteland.

At least he’s got Chris. If he had been alone here, stuck with no family in a country he could barely speak the language of and everyone he knew safe and sound in Australia, the so-called _land without disease,_ he – well, he likes to _think_ he would have survived. He probably wouldn’t have, though.

Silence hangs heavy between Felix and Chris as they trudge along an empty road. _Talking uses up energy,_ Chris had said once, so they don’t talk, not until they’ve settled somewhere with a bottle of water and, if they’re lucky, a tin or two of food.

They’ve got no water, no food, and they’re trekking down a road with nothing much else in sight – a few houses here and there that are destroyed. Sometimes they’ll stumble upon a skull – belonging to a sheep or a cow or some kind of dog, and Felix has to fight back the urge to vomit at the sight of the bleached white bone.

Felix’s bag feels heavy and light all at the same time, not enough in it yet too much unnecessary junk that he can’t bear to part with. Memories of his family, still back in Australia, of some of the friends he made in Korea before all this happened – Eric and Sunwoo and Siyeon – trinkets that he’s kept for so long they belong with him.

Something catches Felix’s attention in the corner of his eye. He pauses in his tracks – spotting the tell-tale glint of plastic. Chris must sense that there’s nobody beside him anymore, stopping and turning to Felix, a questioning look in his eyes. Felix elects to ignore him, making his way towards the plastic bottle.

“Fuck, Chris,” Felix gasps, grasping the – nearly full – bottle in one hand. He tears off the lid, chugging down half the bottle in one go, the warm liquid a blessing to his parched throat.

When he’s finished drinking he holds it out to Chris, who’s watching Felix worriedly. “There might be something bad in there, Lix,” he says. “What if you get infected?”

“Come on,” Felix rolls his eyes. “You _know_ it’s only transmitted through open wounds, and like, _blood,_ ” he grimaces at the word. “Like snake venom.”

Chris sighs, then holds his hand out to accept the other half of the water. His hands are shaky when he goes to drink. He needs rest, needs a good place to sleep, but until Felix convinces him to sleep instead of standing as lookout, it won’t happen.

And it probably never will. Felix knows it and Chris knows it – they’re dying, of thirst, of hunger, and unless a miracle happens, Felix suspects they have a few days, _max._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _A hand reaches towards him,_ and Jeongin wakes up in a comfortable bed for the first time in years. For a second he thinks he’s still dreaming – but no, he just woke up. Or maybe he’s entered a new dream, a better dream, but – this is all he dreams about now. Standing on the edge of a cliff. A face he doesn’t recognise screaming at him. Falling.

He always wakes up before he hits the water.

Seungmin’s face pokes into his vision and it’s then that Jeongin remembers last night. He gasps and bolts upright, grimacing when his side twinges in pain – Woojin had shoved him into a door handle last night, to move him out of the way of _them._

“Where’s Woojin hyung?” he asks frantically, scrambling out of bed. When he stumbles slightly, Seungmin steadies him, then holds him still while he’s trying to escape.

“Hyung is fine,” he soothes. “He’s in the kitchen. Did you know the gas stove works? We can have something _hot_.” His hands rub up and down Jeongin’s arms in what Jeongin assumes is meant to be calming – he’s never been that good at physically comforting people.

Maybe it works a bit, since Jeongin breathes a sigh of relief and slumps forward slightly, but he attributes it more to Seungmin’s words than any physical gestures. When the words finally sink in – _kitchen, stove, hot food_ – he brightens immediately.

“Can we have pancakes?” _God,_ he hasn’t had pancakes in – three years, now.

Seungmin shrugs. “Depends what we find in the cupboards. We can try, though.”

Jeongin doesn’t know where the kitchen is – after Woojin had shoved him roughly through the door, Seungmin had dragged him up the lavish stairs of whatever house they had found, tossed him onto a bed and promised to keep him safe. He lets Seungmin drag him again, to the kitchen, where Woojin is already heating up a pan. The table nearby seats ten, and Jeongin and Seungmin sit next to each other, closest to Woojin and his cooking.

It’s funny, Jeongin thinks, or maybe ironic, that right now he could almost pretend like he’s home, in a world where all _this_ never happened, where everything is fine – if not for the little things that give away otherwise: the long, ugly scar running through Seungmin’s left eye and down his cheek; the limp in Woojin’s step; the small scars littering Jeongin’s palms from years of mishandling knives.

(He knows now, how to run with a knife without injuring himself. It had been a lot of trial and error – but in their situation, he had no choice but to adapt fast.)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As daunting as it may be, there are a lot of perks that come with being alone.

Yeah, Minho doesn’t have anyone to look out for him. He has to tuck himself in the tops of trees just to get some sleep – praying he doesn’t fall while asleep. If he’s overwhelmed by _them_ then, well, he’s fucked.

But he doesn’t have to worry about someone else. He’s strong, fast, he can outrun most of those creatures, and only has himself to focus on. He gets more food for himself, more water, and while he needs to carry more by himself, he doesn’t need to share anything.

Maybe he’s just selfish.

Draining the last of his water, he tosses it to the side, slipping through the door to the general store and making a beeline for the fridge. Maybe four years ago he would have cared about littering, but he’s been living in an apocalyptic wasteland for long enough that one plastic bottle won’t do much damage.

There’s no electricity anymore, and he avoids the milk drinks like the plague – sugary drinks like juices and sweetened tea and fizzy drinks won’t do much either, but he packs a few of them away. There’s not much water left, but it’s a small store and he hadn’t been expecting much anyway. He’s lucky it’s hidden away, too. He can’t begin to count the number of places he’s gone into only to find nothing but rotting fruits and years-old milk.

Snagging a few tins of tuna on the way out, he shoulders his bag and begins the long trek to whichever town is closest.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Woojin hums as he keys in the code, watching as the large gate opens slowly. He takes his time to properly survey the house, nostalgia quickening his heart-rate.

The house looks just as he remembers. The garden is overgrown, sure, and cobwebs and dust line every surface, but underneath all that is the same house Woojin would visit every summer. Even the key-code for the gate and the front door is exactly the same, unchanged from four years ago, the electricity still running thanks to powerful solar-powered panels on the roof.

It seems too good to be true – had seemed that way, and sure, they’d had to kill a few creatures lurking inside, but no one had been injured when they found the place, and, outside of the constant ache in his leg, Woojin had slept peacefully for the first time in years. He’s waiting for the ball to drop, for the _psych, bitch, you thought,_ moment that’s bound to happen eventually. For now, though, he may as well enjoy the peace.

Jeongin is sitting on a large couch in the living room, book open in his lap. It’s a translation of Harry Potter, something Jeongin had once mentioned never reading. Nearby, Seungmin is fiddling with the TV, trying to get something other than static white noise.

Woojin can’t help but smile at how domestic it all feels, walking into the kitchen to dump his bag on the counter, unloading the groceries he’s bought (pilfered from houses nearby, open and empty but stocked full with unopened tins).

He’s still humming as he packs everything away, leaving a few tins out to cook something for them to eat. That’s another perk of this place – with electricity comes a working fridge and oven and stove, allowing them the luxury of hot food without having to start a fire.

He’s tugging out a pan when Seungmin lets out a yell, then cries, “Hyung! Get over here!”

The pan clatters to the benchtop loudly and Woojin rushes into the living room, already expecting the worst. When he sees the TV screen, he freezes. It’s still static-y, but between the static flashes short clips of some kind of news broadcast from another country – Australia, Woojin thinks.

The audio is distorted and he doesn’t speak English well anyway, but Woojin has eyes. It’s some kind of weather broadcast – ridiculously _normal,_ like they don’t have to worry about the disease. Like – like nothing’s happening over there – wherever it is.

Maybe nothing is.

The broadcast lasts a few more moments before static takes over once more.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Chris is exhausted.

He stumbles along next to Felix, staying upright thanks to sheer will and determination alone, but even that is dwindling. He hasn't had anything to drink in -- two days, he thinks now. Hasn't eaten in longer.

They're at the end of their tether, he feels that, he knows Felix feels it too, but all they can do is keep walking, keep moving, praying they'll find an abandoned water bottle - or better yet, a town. But there's nothing.

If Chris was alone, he would have given up by now. But he's Felix's older cousin, the only family either of them have right now, and Felix needs him. Needs him to be strong. So Chris soldiers on, tries to ignore that he barely sweats, the fuzziness in his head keeping him moments away from dropping to the ground.

The sun is disappearing below the horizon, but they don't stop to rest. Chris is afraid to - afraid to wake up without Felix, afraid he won't wake up _at all._

And maybe it's a miracle they spot a house in the distance. Maybe he's hallucinating it, but Felix lets out a noise, stares in the direction of the house. He grasps Felix's hand in his, squeezes it twice, shooting him a tired smile. Felix smiles back. They change their course of direction, straight towards the house. Chris feels ready to drop dead when they reach the front door. Felix is the one to open it, the first to enter the house, and Chris follows behind him, shutting the door.

They're entirely unprepared for a man to appear in front of them, brandishing a knife with a fierce glare on his face. Felix yelps and stumbles back, and the man pauses, then straightens up, lowering the knife, looking confused.

"You're-"

"Alive?" Chris says, in awkward, stilted Korean. He's half-forgotten the language. "Yeah, barely."

"Fuck," the man groans. "Of fucking _course._ "

"What - what's wrong?" Chris stutters. He hates to judge people off one meeting, but he can’t help but think the worst of the man already. The man stares at him blankly. "We just - we haven't had anything to drink in days, we need..." He trails off as the man continues to stare, not speaking, scathing judgement painted across his face.

"Please," Felix adds, voice small and strained.

"I like being alone," he says, glaring at Chris. "I don't like having to worry about _strangers_ appearing and _begging_ for food and water."

"Please," Chris repeats. "Please, just one bottle each, then we'll get out of your hair."

The man stares at Chris for a long while, then turns around with a huff and stalks off. Chris begins to follow, stopping when Felix isn’t beside him.

“Do we have to go, Chris? Guy’s a fucking asshole.”

Chris sighs. “He’s also our only option, Lix.” He doesn’t want to have to accept food and drink from this man either, not when he seems so avidly against it.

The scowl is still painted on the man’s face when Chris and Felix join him in what Chris assumes is the kitchen. He looks incredibly pained as he hands over two water bottles, and a single tin of tuna.

"You said you haven’t eaten in days,” he mutters, when Chris looks at him curiously. “You’ll get sick if you eat too much.”

“Not entirely an asshole, then,” Chris mutters in English. He ignores the inquisitive look the man sends his way.

Felix has already chugged half of his water, and Chris does the same before opening the tin and devouring half the tuna, passing the rest to Felix. While Felix scarfs down the tuna, Chris takes this moment to survey the man. He looks healthy - or, well, as healthy as someone living in _these_ conditions can be. Certainly healthier than Chris or Felix. He's handsome too, behind the scowl painted on his face and the ugly personality, and something about him exudes... a weird _toughness,_ something that suggests he's used to being alone _._ Chris has to wonder if he's seen another human recently. He probably hasn't.

The man coughs to get their attention.

"What?" Felix murmurs, around a mouthful of fish.

"Are you going to leave now?" the man asks pointedly, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh! Ah - yes, of course," Chris stammers, bowing his head in thanks. "Thank you, for everything."

The man doesn't say anything as Felix and Chris head towards the front door. Chris already feels better after eating and drinking, like his energy's been replenished (somewhat) and maybe they'll be fine until the next town.

Felix's hand is on the doorknob when he freezes, stares out the window in shock.

"Oh, fuck, Chris.”

Chris glances through the window, straight into a pair of diseased eyes. They're flat and dead, skin rotting as a hand slams against the window roughly, loudly enough to make Chris stumble back in shock. The hand drags down the window, leaving behind a sticky residue.

"I guess you have to stay now, too." The man appears suddenly beside Chris, shocking him.

"If that’s not too much trouble,” Chris replies.

It definitely _is_ too much trouble, Chris can tell. "There's a couch you can sleep on," the man says, reluctance laced in his voice.

"Thank you - uh," Chris pauses, realising he doesn't know the man's name.

"Minho."

"Thank you, Minho."

It’s nice to know Minho still has a semblance of a moral compass.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The TV quickly becomes the most interesting thing in the house to Seungmin. After receiving a signal from Australia - a weak, shitty signal, sure, but a signal nonetheless - he's been set on finding a way to transmit signals to another country - a country safe, unaffected by the outbreak.

He's had no luck so far, but fiddling with the TV gives him something to do, something that keeps him distracted from the everyday fear that he might, well, _die._ It helps that the house is relatively secure - they haven't seen any of _them_ but Seungmin is sure that if any _were_ to appear, they would be totally safe inside.

A presence settles beside Seungmin and he glances up, away from the TV momentarily. Woojin smiles at him, holding out a mug that smells distinctly like-

“Coffee?”

Woojin nods. “The beans are old, but it should still be good.”

Seungmin takes the mug from Woojin delicately, the ceramic warm from the hot coffee. He takes a sip, sighing as the bitter liquid spills on his tongue, not quite hot enough to burn him. He’s missed coffee.

“I’m going to sleep,” Woojin says. “Let me know if anything happens.”

Seungmin nods, not paying attention as Woojin leaves the room. He continues to sip on the coffee as he works on the TV, the caffeine sinking in and keeping him awake.

The bitterness lingers.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Changbin doesn’t like to dwell on the past. It’s why he likes driving - focusing all his attention on the road ahead and Jisung chattering behind him, avoiding the silence that leaves your mind with nothing to do but wander.

It’s why the only remnants of the past he keeps with him are this car, Jisung and his necklace, and Gyu, the stuffed Snorlax he’s had for years.

Now though, the car is silent. Changbin stopped the car a while ago, needing to refill the gas while Jisung was stretched out across the backseat, Gyu tucked under one arm as he dozed off. And Changbin, Changbin had refilled the tank and climbed back into the front seat and he still sits there, one hand on the wheel but the engine off, the car stagnant, silence crowding the small car.

When Younghyun had ordered Changbin and Jisung to pack their bags before leaving, it had seemed only natural to take Gyu. Changbin can't sleep without Gyu. Couldn't then, and can't now, and he's passed this onto Jisung too, who often would doze in the backseat cuddling Gyu close to his chest even _before_ all _this_ happened, face calm and breathing slow, an instant calming force to Changbin.

When Changbin glances at Jisung curled around Gyu and snoring softly, he feels the same sense of peace now that he did all those years ago. Gyu is old now, faded and tattered and dirty, but Changbin can’t bear to part with him. He's their only real comfort now, the only semblance of normality they can cling to in the briefest of moments.

And, he thinks, he wouldn't be able to sleep at all if Gyu was gone.

Something moves near Jisung, and Changbin startles before realising it's just a small spider, harmless, crawling across the seat and approaching Jisung's face. He leans over, careful not to jostle Jisung, and lets the spider climb up his hand, rolling down the window and tipping it outside, watching as it spirals to the floor.

Jisung shifts in the backseat. Changbin glances back to see if he's still asleep. He's not, one eye is cracked open, he sleepily rubs at it and sits up, Gyu cradled in his arms.

"Hyung? Is something wrong?"

Changbin shakes his head, glancing out the window where the spider had fallen. "Everything's fine, Sungie, go back to sleep."

Jisung hums in response. When he doesn't say anything, Changbin assumes he's dozed off again, too tired or not in the mood to bicker with Changbin like he usually does.

Changbin doesn't tell Jisung about the spider. He'd freak out if he heard, wouldn't be able to sleep at _all,_ and lord knows he needs all the rest he can get.

It’s funny, how for four years they’ve been running from half-dead humans with rotting skin and bloodshot eyes, and yet Jisung is still deathly afraid of spiders, even the tiny ones.

A string of web drifts off in the wind, caught against the window but dislodging eventually, disappearing from Changbin’s sight. He rolls the window up and starts the car, driving away carefully so as not to jostle Jisung too much.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Hot water sprays against Woojin's back, scalding his skin while also loosening muscles he didn't even know were tight. He hasn't been able to relax like this in years, let alone in a place he knows like the back of his hand. Being the eldest of three gives him a responsibility that the others just don't have - he has to keep them safe, has to protect them from danger, and while he knows they can defend themselves well, he still worries. It's nice to be in a place where he doesn't have to worry anymore.

He turns off the shower before long, not wanting to waste any more water than he already has, drying himself off in the bathroom and slipping his clothes on before he's fully dried.

With his skin bright red from the heat of the water, his (barely healed) scar almost blends in. It aches dully - it always does, but Woojin can't tell if it hurts more or less because of the hot shower.

He presses his fingers into the scar tissue, traces the circle and hisses at the pain that spikes up his thigh. It's still healing. Woojin hadn't expected it to heal at all. Seungmin and Jeongin don’t know the truth about Woojin’s injury. They think it’s just a torn muscle, unable to properly heal in the environment they’re in, that causes his limp. Really, it's the scar that forms a ring on his lower thigh, from a wound that should have killed Woojin.

Woojin doesn’t want to worry them with the truth. He doesn’t quite believe it either.

Pulling on his jeans requires him to stretch his leg out, tugging at the wound, and he winces at the pain. If he could wear looser pants he would - and he knows he's got a pair somewhere, he's always kept clothes at this house before, his whole family has, and while his own clothes from four years ago might not fit him anymore, his father's will.

He's got no time to search now, so he continues to tug on his jeans, concealing the wound and making his way out of the bathroom.

Seungmin and Jeongin are in the living room, Seungmin having clearly given up on working on the TV in favour of annoying Jeongin, poking at him and tickling him while Jeongin desperately tries to get free. Woojin thinks he sees Jeongin attempt to kick Seungmin in the face more than once.

"Hyung!" Jeongin screeches when he spots Woojin in the doorway, arms outstretched towards him, "save me from this _demon!_ "

"Hey! Who are you calling a demon?" Seungmin attacks Jeongin with a renewed energy, sending Jeongin into a fit of giggles and a flurry of arms and legs. If they hit Seungmin he doesn't notice.

Woojin decisively ignores the two, instead making his way to the kitchen and opening the cupboard. They're out of rice, and they've only got a few tinned foods left. Jeongin shrieks, " _help me!"_ louder than before, and Woojin shuts the cupboard and heads back into the living room.

When he stands in front of Seungmin and clears his throat, suddenly all attacks on Jeongin stop. Seungmin gazes at Woojin with his best puppy dog eyes. Woojin raises an eyebrow as Jeongin squirms his way out of Seungmin's grip, immediately putting distance between the two.

"Did you want something, hyung?" Seungmin asks innocently.

Woojin nods. "You and Jeongin can go out and grab some rice. And any other food you might want." Seungmin immediately begins to whine, but shuts up when Woojin asks him if he wants lunch or not.

When the two leave, bickering over something Woojin doesn't care enough about, he's left in silence. He predicts about half an hour alone, so he pulls out a book and settles in a chair, beginning to read but staying alert in case anything happens.

Just five minutes later, the door flies open, and Woojin's heart races when he only sees Jeongin, clutching the door frame and breathing heavily, eyes blown wide open, no Seungmin in sight. He rushes to Jeongin, ignores the twinge in his thigh.

"What's wrong?" he asks frantically, patting Jeongin up and down in search for any injury. "Is Seungmin okay?"

"Seungmin is fine," Jeongin replies around erratic pants. He stares up at Woojin. "But there are _people,_ hyung. Actual living _people_ here, and they need our help."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_(The boy stands on the edge of a cliff._

_Trapped. Caught in between_ them _and the harsh waves, nowhere to go but to jump._

_In the distance, a hand reaches out towards him. The face is blurry._

_He jumps.)_

 

 


	2. warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hyung,” Minho says, voice thick, throat tight with panic. “Hyung, you’re hurting me.”

 

 

Minho’s forgotten how exhausting people can be.

He’s never been very social. Growing up his best friends were his cats and a girl his age, who had left when they were twelve, moved to Seoul and lost contact with him.

He keeps to himself. It’s better that way.

When the outbreak started, that changed. Suddenly the priority was _safety in numbers,_ to find as many people to stay with as possible.

_You can’t die when you have five people to use as shields._

Two months into the outbreak he found a group. Seven men, the youngest only a year older than Minho. They took him in, gave him food and water and protected him, treated him kindly.

_Safety in numbers, and eight is safer than seven._

Three years ago he discovered just how safe _numbers_ can be. When eight turned to five turned to three until just Minho was left, alone, with nothing but a bloody knife and the memories of slicing into their necks to stop the infection spreading, ending their lives instantly.

(They were going to die anyway, he reasons. The infection ate at their brains, turned them into corpses of themselves. They wouldn’t have survived. Couldn’t have.)

He had thought he would never see another human — _living —_ again. As long as he lived, God knows how long that would be.

He never expected _two_ of them to appear, both half-starved and dying — but not because of the infection. And despite the urge to turn them away, to disappear without them, he’s let them join him. Just for a while.

Chris and Felix, they aren’t bad. They aren’t bad at all, but they’re _distracting_. Minho can’t deal with distractions.

“You really sleep up here every night?” Chris asks, shifting awkwardly on the tree branch.

Like now — they’ve left the safety of the large house (it won’t be safe much longer, anyway) and night has fallen, Minho’s found a large tree that fits all three of them. Felix is up higher than them, snug against the tree with his eyes slipping shut already. He shakes his head every few moments as if to keep himself awake.

“They can’t climb trees.” Minho tries to keep his voice level. “It’s safer.”

Chris’ eyes flicker to the ground, then back up at Minho. There’s something else he wants to say, Minho thinks, but whatever it is, he chooses not to.

Felix falls asleep first, falling still against the tree. He sleeps silently and still, the only sounds coming from him are occasional heavy breaths. Minho watches him carefully, searching for any movements that seem dangerous, but he doesn’t move besides the occasional twitch of his fingers.

“Thanks.” Chris’ voice breaks through the silence. Minho shrugs, continues to watch Felix. He’s not sure how to respond. It’s been so long without human contact - he hasn’t held a fucking conversation with a living human in _years._

Chris clears his throat, and Minho’s eyes flicker to his face. He’s gazing at Minho with an intensity that makes him squirm, makes him feel exposed to everything.

“You know, I didn’t think you would help us. You seemed-” Chris pauses like he’s searching for the right word to say, “- _hesitant_ to give us anything. I really - really thought we would die that night.”

Minho blinks. “I’m not cruel.”

The words feel sticky on his tongue, like they're telling him he’s a fucking liar.

Chris chuckles, his grin directed at Minho and sending tendrils of guilt licking down his throat. Minho swallows it down uneasily. He hasn’t felt this way in years.

“Go to sleep, Chris,” he mutters. “I’ll watch over us.”

Chris’ grin fades, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods slowly and shuts his eyes. It takes a while, but his head lolls to the side as his breaths deepen and turn into soft snores, his frown smoothing out until he looks almost at peace. It just makes the ugly feeling inside Minho’s gut stronger.

He had been considering it.

Is still considering it.

Leaving them wouldn’t be _hard._

If he just jumped out the tree and ran off, found somewhere else to hide for the night, he would be alone again. He wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else. Wouldn’t have to feel guilty every time he’s forced to ration food.

But Chris and Felix would be left alone. Alone, with no food - unless Minho left them some - already half starving. Essentially, left for dead. And Minho, he might be cruel and selfish and stand-offish, but he doesn’t want death on his hands. Not anymore.

A rustle breaks Minho from spiralling further into these thoughts. He glances towards Chris, and his heart stops briefly before he lunges forward, grabbing hold of Chris before he falls out of the tree. Chris doesn’t wake up, and Minho doesn’t know if this is a product of looking over Felix – not getting any sleep and being, as a result, unaccustomed to sleeping silent and still, or if this is just something Chris has had to deal with. It’s not the snoring that’s a problem, not really, not when it’s so quiet, but Chris – Chris, who is seated precariously metres above the hard ground – moves in his sleep.

How he hasn’t grown out of that habit simply from needing to survive, Minho isn’t sure, but it’s not unnoticeable, and though the branch is large, easily fitting both him and Minho, it’s also easy to fall off.

(Minho knows from experience. Healing a broken arm with no one else to help is tough.)

Minho glances at Felix once more, then, determining he _won’t_ fall out of the tree in the middle of the night, manoeuvres around Chris, pushing him forward just enough to slip behind him, wincing as the bark roughly scrapes his back. He lets his legs dangle off the edge as he pulls Chris flush against his chest.

From here, his view isn’t as good, tree branches obscuring his vision and Chris, warm despite the cool night, is distractingly close to Minho. He hasn’t been this close to someone since — years ago. Since they died. The feeling is uncomfortable, but Minho doesn’t move away. It’s better if he keeps Chris safe.

(A small part of him wonders why he’s even bothering. Another small part of him remembers the warmth of huddling close to someone, the comfort it gave Minho back then, and maybe it’s this part that craves touch, craves someone else to talk to.)

Chris mumbles something, and Minho tenses up instantly. Chris doesn’t wake up – just shifts again, a hand wrapping around his own arm before settling back down again. So he talks in his sleep, too. Minho doesn’t know why, but his brain instantly files it away.

(A part of Minho wonders if Chris sleepwalks, too, but he beats that thought to dust. He doesn’t need distractions. Not now.)

Chris’ hand moves again, reaching for thin air. The movement unbalances them, threatens to tip them out the tree, so Minho grabs it, holding it back against Chris’ chest to keep still. He’s not expecting Chris to grip back, hand reflexively adjusting in Minho's until it’s more comfortable, more natural. Minho stares at it blankly, unsure what to do. His hand is smaller than Minho’s, but his grip is powerful. Minho doesn’t know if he’ll be able to let go.

_Don’t get attached._

Chris’ hand tightens in Minho’s grip. He tries to ignore the warmth of Chris’ back against his chest.

_Remember what happened last time._

Chris shifts again. Securing the arm wrapped around Chris’ waist, Minho rests his chin on Chris’ shoulder, eyes fixated on the ground below them. He tries to ignore the warmth in his chest.

  
  


 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

They stop outside a convenience store somewhere along the road, one of those places designed for the people driving long distances and needing to refuel in the middle of a highway. Jisung glances at Changbin, then at the store. He can see glass littering the ground, the doors smashed in probably long ago.

"Is it safe?" he murmurs, already pulling out a large backpack, emptying it entirely before his hand settles on the door-handle, waiting from the okay from Changbin. He snatches Younghyun’s pocket-knife from the dashboard when Changbin stares pointedly at it, twirling it in his hands idly. The weight is comforting, knife cool in his palm.

Changbin nods once. "Stay safe, Sungie."

Jisung grins at him. "Of course, hyung, I promise. I'm _always_ safe."

With that, Jisung darts off, opening and shutting the door as silently as possible, approaching the doors stealthily.

Glass crunches under his feet, the sound grating on Jisung’s ears as he creeps into the store, scanning the aisles for danger. When he sees nothing – hears nothing – he continues forward.  The shelves are half empty, not much in the way of good food left, but Jisung takes everything he can, shoving it all into the bag without care. Even if there’s no one around, even if he’s perfectly safe, he wants to finish quickly. Get back to Changbin.

Back to the one place he feels safest.

He knows the longer he spends, the more anxious Changbin gets, so he's quick to fill the bag and zip it up, hunting for water this time. He finds a few bottles--not much left, but enough for them to sustain themselves further on the water they've already got in the car. Two litre bottles, easy to carry in his arms if he's careful enough.

It's when he's tugging them out from the fridge, bag dropped haphazardly next to him, that he hears the footsteps behind him. By then, it's too late to do anything but freeze when something cold is pressed against his neck, sends shivers down his spine. Something--terror, maybe--fills his throat, threatens to choke him. It's a gun against his neck--he's familiarised himself enough with Younghyun's old pistol to know what the barrel of one feels like. Probably loaded, too--it'll kill him in an instant if he's not careful.

"Do as I _fuckin'_ say," a man growls. " _Get up._ "

Jisung doesn't recognise the voice, but he senses the underlying threat nonetheless. If he doesn't move, he dies. Shot dead in an instant, doesn't fucking matter that he's human too, that he's not the one who poses the biggest threat to them all. Shockingly enough, Jisung doesn't give a shit about whether he dies. Not really.

But Changbin--Changbin would be left wondering what the hell happened to Jisung, unless--he's been shot too, unless he's wandering into the store right now to save Jisung. Walking straight into the path of a madman, straight into--well, Jisung doesn't care to find out.

He nods stiffly, painfully aware of the pressure against his neck as he rises, still facing the fridge. The reflection is dim but visible: the man is stocky, larger than Jisung in both height and width. The ugly scowl on his face is visible from here. The look sends Jisung's nerves alight, fear creeping through his entire being.

It's a bad time to make jokes, but Jisung feels it slip from his tongue anyway, a cheeky, " _got it,_ chief," that trembles with every syllable. Jisung hates that he's scared.

The man's hand clamps on his shoulder roughly, shoving him into the glass. Jisung can't help the pitiful groan that slips out, his cheek beginning to throb where it's been shoved into the glass. The pocket-knife digs into his thigh, reminding him of its existence. His hand trembles as he shifts it towards his pocket, praying the man doesn't notice.

"What do you _want_ from me," he whispers, hissing when the man shoves at his shoulder again. "Aren't we-- _both_ looking to stay alive?"

The man growls. "There's no _living_ here. You're already _diseased._ "

Jisung's fingers curl around the knife. For a moment, he freezes, before whirling around and lunging for the man. He's able to knock the gun from his grasp, sending it clattering to the floor and slicing the man's arm with the knife.

The man's reflexes are fast, though, grabbing Jisung's wrist before he can inflict any more damage, fingers digging painfully into his skin. Jisung's grip loosens on the knife, it slips through his fingers, nicking them roughly, and Jisung is slammed against the fridge.

This time, he hears the glass crack, feels it move under his weight. The man's other hand, the bloodied one, curves around Jisung's neck and _squeezes,_ suffocating and painful, making Jisung's head swim.

"You're one of _them,_ " the man snarls. " _Infected._ "

 _No,_ Jisung wants to respond, _no I'm not,_ but he can't breathe, can't say anything, can't make any noise but a choking, gurgling, wheezing. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, Jisung's vision blurring as his head spins further, lungs burn hotter. The man says something else but Jisung's gone at this point, the voice blurring into vague sounds that Jisung registers but can't focus on.

He tries to kick out, tries to hurt the man somehow, tries to get free, but no matter how much he writhes in the man's grip, how much he claws at the fingers at his throat, he feels weak. Helpless. Useless.

His vision fades further. It's hard to think much except _pain pain pain_ as the man squeezes harder, clouding Jisung’s mind with white hot flashes that obscure his vision. And how fucking _funny,_ to die not at the hand of one of the infected, but at the hands of a madman, a man still human, a man who should be helping Jisung.

For the second time in four years, he prays.

_Tell Binnie I'm sorry I broke my promise. Tell him I'll miss him. Tell him-- if nothing else, please, God, tell him I love him._

The hand falls from Jisung’s neck and Jisung, too weak to stand, slides to the ground trembling. The pain begins to subside, but the voice he hears--no, voices, there’s a second person now--are muffled still, inaudible. Jisung lifts his head. It feels heavy, like something’s pressing against it, forcing it down. His eyes, too, feel heavy, droopy, like they want to shut. If they shut, Jisung knows he’s going to pass out, and if he passes out…

Well, who knows if he would wake up at all.

(A small part of Jisung wonders if it would really be so bad.)

He can barely make out a second figure, smaller than the first man, voice higher, probably younger. He notices Jisung staring at him, glancing down at him before back up at the first man, tugging on his arm.

Jisung’s head gets too heavy to keep up so he lets it fall, focuses his energy on staying awake. He can feel his bag next to him, heavy against his arm, and when he glances over, beyond it, he can see Younghyun’s knife. It lays forgotten on the floor, too far away from Jisung for him to reach it easily.

The men above him are still talking, still distracted, so Jisung forces himself forward, reaching out with shaking fingers to try grasp the knife, to take it before anything happens to it. He can barely make out Younghyun’s initials engraved on the blade, smeared in blood, Jisung’s own blood, but the thought of his brother makes him reach for it more desperately.

His fingers just brush the blade when a boot comes from nowhere, stamping down on the knife, nearly stepping on Jisung’s fingers too. The man--the first man--bends down, scooping the knife up in one hand and grabbing Jisung’s chin roughly in the other, fingers digging roughly into his flesh. He snarls something, then shoves Jisung away like a ragdoll.

Jisung’s never felt more helpless, sprawled across the floor, watching as the man and his sidekick walk away, the man dropping Younghyun’s knife into the other’s palm. It’s like he can’t talk, can’t hear anything outside the fuzz in his head, can’t do anything except crawl to his bag, cradling it to his chest, unaware that the man has turned around again, has pointed something at Jisung with his mind carefully blank.

The gunshot is loud, piercing through the static filling Jisung’s brain and ringing in his ears. For a second, Jisung feels nothing except a tightening in his shoulder, a wave of warmth spreading across his torso. Dazed, he glances down.

He's bleeding. Lifting a shaky hand, he presses his palm to the wound. He feels nothing--except a low buzzing spreading through his body, the warm blood streaming past his fingers. Like he's not in his own body right now, just watching someone else bleed out.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, his chest, pushing him against the glass with a gentleness that could only come from one person. When Changbin appears in Jisung's line of sight, crowding close to Jisung, pressing against Jisung's hand to stem the flow, Jisung lets out a low whimper, reaching up with his free hand to clutch at Changbin weakly.

Changbin mutters something Jisung can’t hear, drowned out by the buzzing all over his body, but he’s warm, and Jisung feels so cold that he tugs Changbin closer. It’s as if a deep chill is spreading through his veins like burning ice, rejecting all heat except Changbin’s. He shivers, clinging to the warmth as Changbin cradles him close to his chest.

  


 

* * *

  
  
  


The longer Chris travels with Minho, the more he thinks he's misjudged him. It's been a few days now, travelling along dusty roads leading to nowhere, passing the occasional house, torn down or burnt down or destroyed in some other way, unsafe to stay in but so, so tempting. Minho keeps them going, pushes Felix ahead when he starts to slow, staying up during the nights to watch over them.

Little things, like Minho passing Felix pieces of chocolate, passing him a knife to fight with, things that show he cares. Even if he doesn't want to show it. Chris doesn't bother asking why Minho tries to stay closed off--he doesn't doubt Minho would shut off further.

Besides, slowly, Minho’s been opening up to them, anyway. Not much - _really_ not much at all, but Chris knows Minho is a year younger than him, knows Minho wasn’t always alone, knows he used to have two cats, cats he must have loved a lot because even if he doesn’t say it, his eyes light up whenever he mentions them, his smile the softest Chris has ever seen it.

Now, as Minho breaks off another piece of chocolate to give to Felix, they've found themselves nearing a town, one that, by the looks of it, is considerably rich. Big houses, visible even from here, probably fortified with more security than the shitty farmhouses they've passed before.

The town is silent, almost eerie, and if Chris wasn't already used to this feeling--four years of this feeling--he would find goosebumps erupting on his skin and chills running down his spine. Exploring the streets, most of the houses are blocked by a gate, a code needed to enter most likely, the houses themselves secure from any of _them._

There’s no point trying to break in, Chris decides, when they need to prioritise food, when it would just take far too long anyway. Minho and Felix seem to agree, following Chris through the streets until they stumble across a small supermarket, windows smashed and doors wide open.

They had decided it was too dangerous to split up days ago, tiptoeing through the aisles with Minho behind Chris, Felix in front, grabbing all the food they can find. There’s not much--not here, though Chris is sure they’ll find somewhere else.

Eventually Felix drops behind Chris, helping Minho carry more food. When Chris turns around to hand them another tin of tuna he’s managed to procure, to check on them, make sure they’re okay, he doesn’t miss the way Minho's eyes widen minutely. It’s the only warning Chris gets before Minho is dropping the food and lunging at him--no, not at him, at something behind him, shoving him out of the way roughly. There’s a grunt, a hiss, and then Chris hears the dull _thunk_ of Minho's knife in someone's skull before he turns around to see one of _them_ slamming to the ground. Blood smears on Minho’s fingers when he tugs the knife out, shaking his arm and wiping at something on his wrist.

Chris watches as a full body shudder runs through Minho, his gaze following Minho’s to the countless number of _them_ standing around, heads slowly swiveling to stare at Minho, at the body on the ground. Their eyes widen like wild beasts, hungry and untamed, and Chris can hear the sickening groans they let out, like they’re processing what they’re seeing.

(They’re dead, Chris reminds himself. They can’t process shit, no matter what it looks like, they’re running on pure primal instinct, a toxin, a _disease_ that’s fucked their brain up.)

“Fuck,” Minho mutters. “We’re fucked.”

Eyes drifting upwards from the things, Chris spots a figure in the distance, staring at them. He turns to Felix, clutching his knife with laboured breaths, and when he turns back, the figure is gone.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We are.”

  


 

* * *

  
  
  


 

Racing through the streets with Seungmin by his side, Jeongin begins to worry. When he had seen the other men--three of them, alive--his first instinct had been to run. Not away, not to safety, but for help, dragging Seungmin out ("Are you sure you saw people? You're sure they were alive?" Seungmin had said, but raced after Jeongin anyway, leaving Woojin to guard the house) and grabbing as many weapons as he could find, anything he could give to the three others. There hadn't been much. A couple knives, the spare gun Woojin always kept with him, and nothing else.

Now, though, he wonders if he's taken too long. If they'd needed his help instantly, if, because he'd left them alone, they'd be gone now. The thought spurs him on, makes him speed up. He knows Seungmin will follow anyway, can hear his footsteps thudding on the tarmac behind him.

When he makes it to the supermarket to see the the men still there, still fighting, he feels--not relief, exactly, but that worry that they'd already be dead is lessened. None of the men have seen Jeongin or Seungmin, too focused on fending off those things. Jeongin crouches down, close by but out of sight, not wanting to distract them, either. He watches as one of them slams a knife into a thing's head, tugging it out roughly and shoving the thing to the side, not even giving it a second glance as he jumps at another one.

It's Seungmin's gasp, muted but still audible, that alerts Jeongin to the thing creeping up behind another one of the men, the youngest, it looks, who is too busy fighting one in front of him to notice. Seungmin nudges Jeongin, taps the gun in his pocket, and Jeongin understands, tugging it out and crawling silently towards the man.

The thing looks like it used to be a young girl, short, petite, with one pigtail still intact. It moves slowly now--strange, Jeongin thinks, usually they're much faster than humans--and as Jeongin creeps towards it, he clutches at the gun with shaking hands, points it at the thing's head. He's only fired one once before (standing in this position brings back unwelcome memories of bodies writhing on the ground, Woojin's hand on Jeongin's shoulder, Seungmin screaming for help) and he doesn't know--doesn't think--how badly this could go. Seungmin's hand brushes Jeongin's shoulder, forcing away the tension, before it’s gone again, Seungmin disappearing to help one of the others.

With a deep breath, Jeongin fires.

The bullet splinters through the thing's head, blood spraying out in every direction in an instant. Jeongin grimaces when some of it lands on his face, but doesn't wipe it away. The body drops to the ground, unmoving. Jeongin stands there for a moment, watches as the man he's just saved turns to thank him silently, nodding at Jeongin with a grin he thinks is entirely unsuited for an apocalypse.

Jeongin nods back, then darts off to help someone else.

  
  


 

* * *

  
  


 

“You’re a fucking idiot, Han Jisung.”

“But I’m your idiot, aren’t I?”

Jisung’s head flops to the side, heavy-lidded eyes fixating on Changbin, who scowls back at him. His breathing is shallow, coming in short sharp bursts, but he still manages to crack a smile, letting out a pitiful wheeze of a laugh.

When Changbin digs his fingers into Jisung’s wound his chest can’t help but tighten at the sound of Jisung’s pained moans, at the way his fingers grip Changbin’s shirt even tighter. Changbin tries to ignore it, tries to ignore the thudding of his heart when Jisung whimpers, taking hold of another shard of metal and tugging it from Jisung’s shoulder.

The bleeding had mostly stopped a while ago, the tourniquet Changbin had fashioned out of his torn shirt working to stem the flow, but fresh blood continues to surface with every piece of the bullet Changbin fishes out, staining his fingers and his clothes and Younghyun’s car. The bottle of vodka doesn’t seem to be helping Jisung, doesn’t seem to do anything to numb the pain, and Changbin’s already taken it from him before he drinks himself to sleep, keeping Jisung just barely awake, on the brink of unconsciousness as he continues to operate messily on him.

He’s never had to do this before, not on a wound this bad. Back then, back when they didn't know how to fight, when Younghyun was still with them, he didn't need to. Younghyun would patch them up, and Changbin would watch as he pulled neat stitches through Jisung’s arm. Back then, the first-aid box they had taken with them had been full with bandages, disinfectant, needles. Now, it only has a measly spool of thread, a couple needles, everything else gone after four years.

Changbin tries to replicate Younghyun now, taking too long to thread the needle, tremors running through his hands that he can't seem to shake.

He’s terrified, but he tries not to let it show in front of Jisung.

Jisung whines when Changbin begins to stitch him up, a high pitched keen that pierces Changbin’s heart. He pauses briefly, but Jisung threads his hand through Changbin’s free one, squeezing it with the little energy he has. _Breathe deeply,_ Changbin thinks. _Just breathe._

“It’s funny,” Jisung says, through clenched teeth. He whimpers when Changbin pushes the needle in again. “It didn’t-- _hurt--_ until you brought me here. It was just--just kind of numb. And cold. Is that--normal?”

His words slur together, almost indistinguishable from one another. Changbin’s hand tightens in Jisung’s grasp.

“I don’t know,” he replies, refusing to look at Jisung’s face when he lets out another whimper. “I’ve never been shot before.”

Jisung doesn’t speak after that, and Changbin finishes stitching him up, dropping the needle back in the box. He watches as Jisung traces the closed wound absentmindedly, something passing through his expression for a split second before they flicker up towards Changbin.

“Hyung,” Jisung whispers, grabbing at Changbin’s sleeve before he can leave. His eyes are wide, the clearest they’ve been in hours. “Hold me.”

Changbin hesitates, glancing towards the boot of the car. He needs water, needs to clean Jisung off, clean himself off--

“ _Please,_ ” Jisung adds, and Changbin surrenders.

He’s careful to maneuver Jisung gently, trying not to jostle his shoulder and slipping behind him quickly. Jisung settles back into him almost immediately, head resting against his chest. Changbin’s arms slip around Jisung’s middle like second nature, tightening as he rests his head on Jisung’s. Jisung’s shirt has ridden up, Changbin rubbing circles into the skin with his thumb distractedly, focusing on Jisung’s breathing, the softness of his hair. He presses a soft kiss there, lets it linger.

“You know,” Jisung mumbles, head tilting up towards Changbin, “I might have to get shot more often if this is how you’ll cuddle me afterwards.”

Changbin swallows thickly. “Please don’t,” he whispers.

He presses his lips to Jisung’s forehead, feels when Jisung goes lax, relaxing in his arms. There’s no sound except their breathing, the thudding of Changbin’s heart in his chest. Jisung picks up Changbin’s hand, plays with it, slotting their fingers together and rubbing at the dried blood on Changbin’s.

“I’m gonna be okay, hyung,” Jisung whispers, suddenly serious, still staring at their linked hands. “You know you’re not going to lose me, right? Not ever.”

Changbin squeezes Jisung’s hand tightly. “Yeah. I know.”

It’s a while later when Changbin leaves Jisung, now fallen into a fitful sleep, grabbing a shirt and a few bottles of water. He cleans Jisung with methodical strokes, scrubbing at his skin until the blood is gone, careful to be gentle around the wound. Once he’s cleaned Jisung he scrubs at his own hands roughly. He throws the shirt out the car window, winding it back up almost all the way before glancing at Jisung again.

It’s probably not right to leave Jisung asleep, but the even rise and fall of his chest comforts Changbin, clambering into the passenger seat where he can sit more comfortably, keep his eyes on Jisung. He’ll be okay. He will.

  
  


 

* * *

  


 

 

When Chris calls for him from the kitchen, Felix is in the living room, with Seungmin and Jeongin next to him, chatting animatedly about something Felix has zoned out of. He can't help but feel guilt for not listening to them, not paying attention. They just saved his ass--god knows he would have been toast if they hadn't arrived when they did. Seungmin stops talking briefly, watching Felix as he gets up and leaves. Felix can't help but feel his gaze is critical, all seeing, like he's picking apart everything about Felix in a single glance. Felix tries not to let it get to him. He's only known Seungmin for a few hours.

In the kitchen, Chris holds two steaming mugs, passing one to Felix as soon as he sees him. And really, Felix can't stop thinking that he must be dreaming.

He knows he's not, because when he pinches himself it hurts, and the mug of tea is warm in his hands, burning his throat when he gulps it down too quickly. God, it's been a while since he's had something hot.

"How are you feeling?" Chris’ smile is warm, warmer than the tea in his hands.

"Fine," Felix lies.

Chris stares at him pointedly. "Lix."

Felix shrugs, eyes cast to the floor. "I guess I just--can't believe this."

Chris chuckles, squeezing Felix's shoulder reassuringly. "I guess you're right. Come on, let's go somewhere comfortable."

The hand on Felix's back pushes him gently back into the living room, where he takes a seat on the sofa instead of by Seungmin and Jeongin. They're too caught up in conversation, anyway, whispered to each other like they don't want anyone else to hear.

Everything feels so... surreal. Like it's too good to be true. Like Felix is going to get too comfortable like this, curled up on an expensive sofa with Chris next to him in a house belonging to three strangers, until he wakes up one day and everyone is gone. Dead. Or maybe he'll be the first to go.

From the moment Felix had stepped inside this house, a knot has been growing in his stomach. Jeongin had introduced them to Woojin, who had smiled at Felix reassuringly, but the knot had only grown bigger. Chris hadn't seemed worried, had grinned back at Woojin, had grinned at Minho too, who offered a small smile back.

When Woojin had taken Chris and Minho with him to show them around the house--like they were visiting for a day, like this whole apocalypse thing wasn't happening, like everything outside was just normal--Felix had stayed back, had strayed into the dining room where Jeongin sat with Seungmin, fiddling with the television.

And Seungmin and Jeongin are nice. Really nice. Felix gets along with them, even knowing them for barely a few hours.

But he still feels uneasy.

Chris' hand lands on Felix's knee, squeezing it comfortingly. "We're safe now, Lix. You don't need to worry."

Felix forces out a smile around his mug. The knot in his stomach doesn't leave.

  
  


 

* * *

  
  


 

Minho is afraid.

He’s alone again--but that’s not why he’s afraid. He’s used to being alone. He’s been alone for years, now. But he’s been sleeping above ground, settled amongst sturdy branches and hidden by lush green leaves, for even longer. So why is he afraid? Once, long ago, he had been. Heights--a phobia Minho thought he had gotten over long ago, something Minho’s stopped thinking about--maybe he was stupid to think he ever could forget it. Now, settled in the crook of a large tree branch, Minho is afraid. It’s the kind of fear that grips him from head to toe, the fear that he hasn’t felt since then, the fear that paralyses him until he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t…

The hand that lands on his shoulder is warm, gripping Minho and tugging him closer to a broad chest. Someone is whispering something, they just sound like words to Minho but they’re soothing nonetheless, surrounding him in warmth until he begins to breathe again. Slim fingers run through his hair, stroking his back until his muscled have loosened, relaxed, and then some more.

“We’re not even that high up,” the voice murmurs. “You’re perfectly safe, Lino.”

Minho’s breath catches in his throat. Lino. He hasn’t heard that in years--there’s only a few people who have ever called him that, and they’re all dead.

He shifts away from the warm body, glances up into an oh-so-familiar face smiling down at him gently, warmly. “Hyung? But you--you’re-”

“I’m here, Lino. I’ve got you,” Hoseok whispers, tugging Minho back against his chest. Minho doesn’t fight him, lets himself melt into the embrace.

Hoseok died years ago, but somehow him being here feels right, and, well, Minho’s missed this kind of touch. The warmth of human contact. The safety, the security, that comes from being in someone’s arms like this, warm and comfortable.

But when he glances at the ground again, terror burns in his chest. Hoseok’s arms tighten around him further, comforting briefly until they’re too tight, squeezing him painfully, squeezing him until suddenly he can’t breathe again, can’t move again.

“Hyung,” Minho says, voice thick, throat tight with panic. “Hyung, you’re hurting me.”

“ _Don’t worry_ ,” Hoseok whispers. “ _You’re safe_.”

Minho doesn’t feel safe, he twists in Hoseok’s arms to tell him that, to plead with him face to face and… and Minho sees it.

The necrosing of Hoseok’s skin, creeping up his neck in dark rivulets, black lines like ink spreading through his veins and rotting his skin, peeling it apart grotesquely. Minho tries to lurch back, shoving at Hoseok’s arms weakly.

“You wouldn’t want to fall, would you, Lino?” Hoseok croons, leaning closer to Minho.

Panic grips Minho before he kicks himself into action, shoving against Hoseok harder, crying out when Hoseok’s fingers dig painfully into his ribs, his stomach, pressing against the scar that lies across his lower belly like he’s trying to tear Minho apart.

With one final shove, Minho wrenches himself from Hoseok’s grasp and plummets to the ground.

He wakes up in total darkness, in a room he doesn’t recognise, on an uncomfortable couch with sweat beading on his skin. White hot panic grips him for a moment, makes him jolt upright, clawing at himself with a whimper before he remembers where he is.

His fingers dig into his forearms as he forces himself to breathe, forces his heart to slow, his body to stop trembling. His wrist aches, spikes of pain that run up his arm, but he refuses to look at it, shutting his eyes tight and willing the pain away, concentrating on blocking it out until all he can feel is a dull throb.

His back aches from sleeping on the couch, his head is pounding from--the nightmare, maybe. He shakes his head to rid himself of the memories, grimacing when it only makes the ache worse. Legs pulling up to his chest, he drops his head in his arms, breathing heavily. The darkness is stifling, memories from _before_ making his hair stand on end, skin prickling with goosebumps. He needs--he needs _light,_ something to distract himself before his mind spirals in on itself.

His legs shake when he stands up, stumbling into the kitchen and flicking on the light. It’s bright, _too bright,_ but it’s just what he needs, something to focus on. He blinks vigorously to clear his vision, hands closing around a bottle of water.

When he hears the _click_ of the door shutting he jumps, spinning around instinctively.

“You’re up early,” Woojin says, striding up to Minho and reaching around him for a water-bottle. His limp is worse in the early hours of the morning, Minho notices. Woojin takes a gulp of water before staring at Minho again. “Thinking about something?”

“Your couch is uncomfortable,” Minho replies, hedging around the truth.

Woojin’s gaze bores into him, but he doesn’t reply to that, just takes another sip of water. It feels like he knows exactly why Minho’s awake; he appreciates that Woojin doesn’t push him.

Another spike of pain runs through Minho’s wrist, making him almost drop the water when his hand spasms. He sucks in a tight breath involuntarily, hand flying to his arm instinctively, rubbing at it, tightening his grip around it until the throbbing eases once more. Woojin watches him the entire time, eyes flickering between Minho’s face and his wrist.

Woojin’s gaze scares Minho, calculative like he’s figuring something out, and then his eyes widen and he’s staring at Minho’s face, into Minho’s soul.

“You too?”

Freezing, Minho glances at Woojin’s leg, then back up at Woojin. The tight smile on Woojin’s face tells him everything.

He nods.

  
  


 

* * *

 

 

 

Hyunjin’s head throbs as he slowly comes to his senses. A strange repugnant smell hovers in the air, something Hyunjin can’t pinpoint, but recognises. His vision blurs when he sits up, his side aching. The sharp pain makes him wince.

He can feel someone’s arm stretched across his legs—Yugyeom’s, he notices, the man still lying still, asleep. He doesn’t move when Hyunjin groans, shifts his legs back and forth to bring life back into them. When Yugyeom continues to stay still, not even shifting a bit, Hyunjin frowns. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, not on the hard ground, not next to Yugyeom.

His head throbs painfully again, sharp spikes that increase and decrease with the beating of his heart, and when he reaches up to rub his temples, to attempt to alleviate the pain, his hand comes away wet and sticky with--blood. It’s thick and red and pungent, and the sight of it snaps him awake. Something sick manifests in his stomach, and he turns to Yugyeom again.

“Hyung,” he whispers, “hyung, wake up.”

He taps Yugyeom on the shoulder, then shakes him when nothing happens. Desperate, he leans over, goes to push harder against Yugyeom. The ice in his stomach expands, spreads through his entire body. Hyunjin’s chest seizes.

Blood pools around Yugyeom’s chest, around his neck, eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling. The smell grows stronger, sickeningly putrid, invading Hyunjin’s senses and seeping down his throat.

Yugyeom’s not asleep.

He’s _dead._

“ _Fuck,”_ Hyunjin whimpers, jerking back away from Yugyeom blindly. “What the _fuck._ ”

The metallic smell sticks in his nose, in his throat, choking him as he scrabbles back. Eyes blown wide, keening slipping from his throat erratically, choked and broken between short breaths – is he even breathing?

_Don’t move._

The words come to him slowly, head throbbing dully.

_It’s easier if you don’t move._

Bile rises in his throat, his fingers dig into the corners of his mouths in a futile attempt to stop himself from vomiting, feet scrabbling for purchase on the floor.

_You’re all dead anyway._

As he pushes himself further back, away, _as far away_ as he can get, his hand lands in something wet, warm and sticky. Another whimper escapes him as he freezes, his hand trembles when he moves it away from the floor to see it stained a deep, _deep_ red.

It’s seeing Jaebum’s face, half gone, half shredded to bits, a single eye wide and glassy, stained with blood, that does it for him. Bile forces itself past Hyunjin’s throat, his muscles convulsing, forcing him to hunch into himself as he retches over and over and over again, arms trembling where they’re holding him up. There’s nothing to throw up except bile but he can’t stop, the smell is sticking to him, tearing at his throat and ribbing tears from his eyes, leaving him trembling as he chokes over and over again.

It might be hours later when he stops retching, when his stomach stops its spasms. His head falls to his arms with a whimper, blood smearing on his cheeks, mingling with his tears. He buries his face in the crook of his elbow, like that’ll stop the smell.

He’s stopped crying a while ago, tired himself out, and now he just feels empty. His head is fuzzy, his limbs feel heavy and all he wants to do is curl up and sleep and never wake up, but the silence suffocates him, the smell too pungent, too thick for him to stay. He can’t stay. Not with--not with Yugyeom and Jaebum next to him. He pushes up on unsteady arms, crawls to the wall so he can drag himself up, clinging to the bricks as he stumbles towards the door.

(They’re almost the same colour as the bloody streaks he leaves behind. How much of it is his own?)

The hallway outside is just more of that same awful smell, never fading no matter how far from the room Hyunjin tries to get. It’s like the smell is following him. Plastered all over his skin, sunken through to his bones. He pushes at the door at the end, stumbling into the kitchen, which doesn’t smell any better. He almost screams when he sees the figure standing by the fridge, turning around at the pitiful noise Hyunjin lets out instead.

“ _Hyunjin?_ ” Jinyoung looks surprised to see Hyunjin, eyes widening in shock. Hyunjin isn’t prepared for the way Jinyoung races to him, gathering in his arms despite the blood soaked through Hyunjin’s clothes, looking over him carefully, caressing his hair.

“Hyung?” Hyunjin instinctively clings to Jinyoung’s shirt, fingers tangling in the soft, worn material. “What--what happened?”

Jinyoung’s hands freeze in Hyunjin’s hair. His voice is faint when he replies, “it all happened so quickly, I’m not--I’m not sure. I remember--there was _blood--“_ Hyunjin shivers at Jinyoung’s tone, but doesn’t say a word, “--and I--I thought you were _dead._ ”

His fingers press harder, rougher, one hand gripping his chin tightly. There’s a glint in his eye Hyunjin’s only seen once before--recently, when they crossed paths with that other kid. The look scares Hyunjin, makes the ice in his stomach return, every instinct telling him to _get away, now,_ and when he tries to tug himself away Jinyoung lets him, hand tightening in Hyunjin’s hair briefly before Hyunjin stumbles back. He spots the glint of metal by Jinyoung’s side and backs away further.

“Where’s everyone else?” he asks warily. He wishes he had a weapon right now. Jinyoung growls, a deep, guttural sound, following Hyunjin and backing him further towards the corner of the kitchen.

“You’re _supposed_ to be _dead,_ ” he snarls.

_No._

Hyunjin’s breath catches in his throat and he practically throws himself back, stumbling on his own feet, head shaking vigorously in small, minute movements. “ _No, hyung, what are you--“_

“I thought I killed you all.” Jinyoung reaches for the knife. It’s the pocket-knife from before, the one he took from the kid. Hyunjin thought he had it--how did Jinyoung take it back? “ _I killed you all._ ”

Hyunjin crashes into the table, the pain flaring up his wrist making his eyes burn. He scrambles around to stop himself from falling, legs trembling so much that he can barely hold himself up.

“No, _no you didn’t._ ” His voice is barely there, a near inaudible whisper. “You _can’t have._ ”

An ugly smile stretches across Jinyoung’s face, more of a grimace than anything else. “You’re diseased, Hyunjin. Don’t you understand?” Jinyoung continues to advance, playing with the knife absentmindedly. “You _all_ were. But I’ll make it better.”

He laughs, short and hysterical, and Hyunjin’s hand closes around something small, cool. A pistol--the one belonging to Jaebum, _fuck,_ if only it had been with him. Hyunjin is almost shaking too badly to pick it up, fingers curling around it just tightly enough that he can point it at Jinyoung.

‘Don’t come closer. I’ll--I’ll shoot you.”

His hands continue to shake. His voice breaks, too high, too reedy to sound threatening, intimidating. Not for Jinyoung, at least, whose mouth twists further into that painful grimace.

“You wouldn’t hurt your _favourite hyung,_ would you, Hyunjinnie?”

Hyunjin whimpers. Yugyeom and Jaebum flash in his mind. For a second, he shuts his eyes and prays the pistol is loaded, then pulls the trigger.

(The pocket-knife is cool in Hyunjin’s hand. He hadn’t noticed before, when Jinyoung had dropped it in his palm earlier, the initials engraved in the blade. Now, stumbling away from the safe house, his fingers trace the characters absentmindedly.)

  


 

 

* * *

  
  
  


 

( _For a second, he’s rising in the air. Moving upwards. In another world, the sky’s the limit. In this world, the sky’s wishful thinking — unattainable. Impossible._

_For a second, he glances down._

_He won’t survive this. It’s a long way to the surface of the water. Waves crash against the cliff face angrily, saliva foaming against rocky teeth, ready to swallow him whole._

_It’s just a dream, he thinks. Pretend this time is just like all the other times. Pretend it’s just a dream._

_For just a second, he pretends not to feel the wind buffeting his skin._

_Just a dream.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to maxie, aja and nina for beta-ing this before i posted <3

**Author's Note:**

> ~ leave comments and kudos! i appreciate them a lot!
> 
> ~ you can also send me a question on [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/jirouz) or follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bfpyos)  
> where i post teasers of upcoming fics and updates!


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